


magic forgot us (but we fixed it)

by DesertWaterfall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, One Shot, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertWaterfall/pseuds/DesertWaterfall
Summary: In a world obsessed with the Marks and soulmates, Harry’s empty wrists made him more of a freak than his magic in the muggle world ever did.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 26
Kudos: 555
Collections: Tomarry 💜, the tomarrymort fics i will forever reread





	magic forgot us (but we fixed it)

**Author's Note:**

> aka "Harry and Voldemort as DIY soulmates in a literal Soulmate AU"
> 
> betaed by [NeuroWriter14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeuroWriter14/pseuds/NeuroWriter14). thank you!

The Marks were the most beautiful thing in the world. Everyone agreed on it.

It was the gift from Magic itself, from the Gods, the reminder that whatever happened in life, there was always light, there was always someone made for you.

Of course, sometimes soulmates — the ones with the same Mark on their wrists — didn’t work out. Perhaps the most famous example of their time was Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald. It was no secret that two men bore the same Mark on their right wrists — phoenix flying above the ruins — and that they were understandably close before the war, but then Grindelwald went insane from Dark Arts and Dumbledore was forced to fight against him and put his own soulmate in prison. Their tragic story could be found in every book about soulmates as a lesson of why it is so important to talk and listen to your soulmate and not rely solely on the Mark. Even books about Dark Magic used their example to emphasise that one must be extremely cautious while practising such dangerous magic or it can break even the bond as strong as the one formed by the Marks.

The Marks were sacred. They went beyond culture and blood prejudice, and even a posh pureblood scion wouldn’t think twice if they found a matching Mark on a wrist of a dirty muggleborn. Because when everything was said and done, what fool would reject a gift from Magic?

It was difficult to find people with the same Mark as yours. After all, the world was huge. But wizards were creative creatures, and the books with written down Marks were travelling around the Wizarding World as long as the Wizarding World existed. People were trying hard to find the ones made for them, even if it took them years, and they were inventing more and more improved systems to make the search easier.

And in the world obsessed with the Marks and soulmates, Harry’s empty wrists made him more of a freak than his magic in the muggle world ever did.

* * *

Markless.

They first thought it was a mistake. The Markless were extremely rare, and no one could believe that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was among them. Surely the Mark was just taking a bit too long to appear? Yes, it should have made itself visible by the age of eleven — the reason why this age was universally considered as the age of magical maturity — but Harry Potter was already special, so what’s one more thing?

But time passed, and his wrists stayed empty.

Draco Malfoy called him a squib because he didn’t have a Mark just like everyone else without magic. Harry cursed him by the sheer power of his accidental magic because he didn’t yet know any spell, and earned his first detention for this.

But the whispers didn’t stop.

Freak. Evil. Broken. 

Unwanted.

It was impossible to hide your wrists in a society where everyone paid extremely close attention to them in the hopes of finding a match. Harry tried to wear long sleeves, but it made it only more obvious that something was amiss. And every time he met someone new, he was forced to watch how their face turned confused and then horrified and then pitying when their eyes darted to his wrists and saw them empty.

Sometimes Harry thought it would have been better if he never accepted the invitation to Hogwarts.

But then he remembered Dursleys. Remembered living in a cupboard under the stairs. Remembered being forced to cook and clean and eat scraps and wear oversized old shirts.

And then he took a deep breath and clenched his fists, and reminded himself that being Markless didn’t make him bad.

Didn’t make him unwanted.

* * *

Hermione brought him books about Markless and their history, and Harry learned how other wizards with empty wrists learnt to live with it. How they proved that it is possible to form meaningful relationships with others, even when you know that there is always someone better for them than you.

Ron made him a wristband with his and Hermione’s Mark, painfully drawn with every little detail. He said that Magic must have forgotten to put it there, but that was okay, because he fixed it now.

But then Harry met another wizard, who held his head high and wore short sleeves and didn’t seem to care that his wrists were empty.

"There are strange likenesses between us," whispered Tom Riddle, and Harry could see the same bitterness buried deep in his eyes that he saw every time he looked in the mirror. "Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by muggles... both Markless."

Harry could understand how this handsome, clever boy turned into the Dark Lord.

And stabbing the diary with a basilisk fang, he couldn’t help but think, was the same fate awaiting him?

* * *

The fourth year was the hardest.

Harry got used to the fact that everyone around him already knew he was Markless, but now new students arrived, and it was all over again. Confusion, disgust, pity. Shameless questions about how he could live without a soulmate. Arrogant insults that he must worth nothing if Magic didn’t grant him a Mark.

And then he was chosen by the Goblet, and it became even worse.

He tore off the wristband and threw it in Ron’s angry face.

He walked to the dragon with his wrists bare and his head high.

He was going to win this stupid tournament and he was going to show them all that being alone didn’t make him weak.

* * *

At the graveyard, he was alone as he watched Voldemort raising from the cauldron, eyes red, skin pale and wrists empty.

When Voldemort approached to gloat, Harry kicked him between the legs.

“ _You little shit!_ ” the Dark Lord backed away, hissing with surprisingly little decorum.

“ _Look who’s talking, you ugly snake-face!_ ” retaliated Harry the only way he could while still tied up to a tombstone.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and Harry waited for the inevitable curse, but it never came.

“ _You speak parseltongue,_ ” Voldemort looked at Harry with sudden curiosity.

“ _Well, duh,_ ” shrugged Harry. Half of the Wizarding Britain already knew, but it was not surprising that the Dark Lord, who spent the last decade or so as a wraith, wasn’t up to date with the current news.

This time the annoyance took the best of Voldemort and in one swift movement the Dark Lord was standing before him, grabbing his chin in a harsh grip and forcing Harry to look right into his red eyes.

Harry screamed in pain from the touch and from the stream of memories running through his mind in a quick succession. He felt as if his head would tear apart any moment now, would burn and split into halves if this continues, but he couldn’t look away from these angry eyes and he couldn’t move.

It ended just as suddenly as it started and Harry fell on the ground as the ropes keeping him in place disappeared.

“You are my horcrux,” whispered Voldemort above him in what was close to a shock.

Harry raised his head to look at him.

“I’m… your... _nothing_!” he hissed stubbornly, still trying to catch his breath from all the screaming.

But Voldemort wasn’t affected by his little outburst, and Harry frowned at the strange expression in his eyes.

“You have a piece of my soul inside yours,” Voldemort whispered again, not looking away from Harry’s form on the ground.

“What?...” Harry finally managed to stand and suspiciously looked at the Dark Lord. “What do you mean, a piece of your soul?”

“I mean,” Voldemort tilted his head and Harry was slowly recognising the look in his eyes as the one of hunger. “That you have a literal piece of my literal soul in you, Harry Potter.”

Harry paused. That sounded like… like...

He shook his head decisively. “I don’t believe you! We can’t... share a soul or something,” he took a step back but collided with the tombstone behind. “You’re just messing with me!”

“That should be impossible, yes,” agreed Voldemort, taking the step forward. He was talking in a sweet and gentle voice, but Harry could hear the madness creeping through it. “Yet here we are. You speak parseltongue and can see in my head. Even that old fool Dumbledore said I put a bit of myself in you, don’t you remember?”

And in a flash, Harry remembered. His short meeting with Dumbledore after he fought the basilisk. Harry was afraid of similarities between him and young Voldemort, and the Headmaster explained that he could speak parseltongue because Voldemort spoke it and that the man transferred some of his powers to Harry. It failed to calm him down back then, and so Harry chose to forget about it — until Voldemort brought this memory forward.

“But — How — How did it even happen?” Harry pressed into the stone behind as Voldemort stepped even closer and loomed over him.

“Does it matter?” murmured Voldemort with a mad grin on his face. 

Harry looked into his feverish eyes and he saw such hunger, such deep _possessiveness_ in them, that it became extremely clear Voldemort wouldn’t let him go now, not in a million years.

Because when everything was said and done, what fool would reject a gift from Magic?

They shared a soul in the most literal of ways. It should have been impossible, and Harry was sure there was some awfully dark magic in play — but Voldemort was right, why did it matter?

The Dark Arts were dangerous and could mess even with the bonds as strong and sacred as the one of the Marks. They could break it, but what if they could build too?

They were standing there, alone, two Markless wizards, and Harry could feel the deeply buried bitterness in him transforming into strange mad _glee_. The same glee that he could see in Voldemort.

“No. It doesn’t,” breathed Harry. He straightened up and lifted his chin and looked straight into these red eyes. “You are _mine_ now.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Voldemort stepped impossibly closer and they were touching now but it didn’t bring Harry pain anymore. “And you are _mine_.”

That night, Harry didn’t return to Hogwarts.

* * *

It was insane, they said. It was not how Marks worked, they said.

And Harry and Voldemort agreed. After all, the bond between them was much stronger than that of a silly tattoo on a wrist.

They shared soul, mind and magic. They learned to listen to each other’s thoughts instead of words, and they made each other stronger, no matter how far away they were.

Magic had forgotten to mark them as soulmates, but that was okay. They fixed it now.

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this trying to beat my writer block. Not sure I like it, but I'd love to know what you think.
> 
> Also, check out my new and shiny [tumblr blog](https://desertwaterfall.tumblr.com/)! It's mostly empty for now, but I'm totally gonna babble there about my thoughts on writing and tomarry fandom.


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